


Unwelcome Houseguests

by morganoconner



Category: Supernatural
Genre: First Time, Humor, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-15
Updated: 2011-12-15
Packaged: 2017-10-27 21:59:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,311
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/300497
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganoconner/pseuds/morganoconner
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sam and Dean's new house comes with a bonus poltergeist. If only they'd realized that a little bit sooner…</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unwelcome Houseguests

**Author's Note:**

> Written for [](http://placeofinsanity.livejournal.com/profile)[**placeofinsanity**](http://placeofinsanity.livejournal.com/) for the 2011 [](http://spn_j2_xmas.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://spn_j2_xmas.livejournal.com/)**spn_j2_xmas** exchange

They've been living in the house for almost three months before they realize it's not as empty as they thought.

The thing is, salt lines along the windows and doorways don't make a huge difference if the thing is trapped inside already. And they're not as careful with protections on themselves as they should be, not when they're in the safety of their own home.

And, okay, it's not like there haven't been a few clues, but come on. It _is_ an old house, and they _did_ find a couple rats the first time they heard the scratching in the walls. They set a few traps out, caught a few rodents, and the scratching stopped. And damn it, that lamp they stole from the last motel they ever stayed in – a small memento of life on the road, because the thing is hideous looking in all kinds of awesome ways – _always_ flickered a little, faulty wiring and cheap bulbs and…

Okay, yeah, Dean is a fucking idiot. He can admit it.

So there were clues, but not a lot of them, and they did their research anyway, way before they ever bought the place, and it never turned up anything. Sam triple-checked, because they both know how bad Winchester luck tends to be, and let's face it, after a few near-misses with the apocalypse, they weren't ready to start taking chances just yet.

But how they missed a damn poltergeist is beyond Dean's ability to comprehend. No matter how… _friendly_ the thing seems to be, for a given definition of the word 'friendly'. It's a rookie move he's going to be kicking himself for later, especially because this poltergeist doesn't just wreak havoc. It plays _games_.

Which is why Dean and Sam are currently locked in Sam's closet, which is bigger than a motel room closet but smaller than a walk-in, and Dean feels like it's getting smaller with every second he's stuck in here.

"We're really, really stupid, aren't we?" Sam sighs, pointing his little keychain penlight along every wall and into every corner trying to find a way out. Salt from an emergency tin he keeps on the shelf is now lining the doorway, but it's not that much of a comfort.

"Yes. We are. Turn that thing off before you waste the battery." Dean is maybe feeling a little bit grumpy.

Just a little.

Sam sighs, but he does flick the flashlight off with a roll of his eyes. The instant plunge into complete darkness doesn't actually make Dean feel any better, surprise, surprise, and for once he curses Sam for listening to him.

Somehow, he knows, this _has_ to be all Sam's fault.

Normally Dean would be able to break the door down. Or something. But no, this poltergeist is also smart. Even if he could back up enough to get a decent kick in, there was no mistaking the sound of Sam's antique (and therefore _heavy as fuck_ ) Salvation Army dresser being slid across the hardwood floor until it was blocking the door. There's no getting out of here until it _lets_ them out, or they learn how to punch through solid walls without any weapons.

Dean can't believe he was stupid enough to leave his gun on his nightstand. On top of everything else he's been stupid about lately.

"Hey, Dean?" Sam asks after they've been standing in pitch darkness for at least ten minutes. "Does it feel…colder to you?"

Dean stands perfectly still, closing his eyes. And yeah, he realizes, it does. It hasn't been too noticeable up till now, since he was wearing a sweatshirt while he did yardwork in the crisp November Minnesota afternoon. But now that he's concentrating on it, the skin on his face is cool to the touch, and there are goosebumps starting to rise on his arms beneath the sweatshirt. "Damn it," he says succinctly.

"Great," Sam sighs, and the kid's teeth are all but chattering already. Dean can't see him, but he remembers suddenly that Sam was wearing just a thin, threadbare t-shirt and shorts after his workout in the basement. And this isn't even just cold like the heating went off, this is cold like something is fucking with them.

In other words, really freaking cold, and rapidly getting a hell of a lot colder.

"First thing we do when we get out of here is ice that little fucker," Dean says, kicking the door just on principle and scowling at it when it doesn't budge.

"If we get out of here." That's Sam, ever the voice of reason. Dean could kick him, too.

"We'll get out. If it wanted us dead, we'd already be dead." Dean hopes.

"Then what do you think it wants?" Sam asks. Dean hears him shuffle a step closer, hears him rubbing his arms where the bare skin must be freezing now. If Dean could see, he's sure their breath would be misting in front of them already.

"God only knows. Jesus, we're gonna be Winchester-shaped freeze-pops soon." Dean doesn't really know the layout of Sam's closet very well, but he reaches up and starts patting along the top shelf, because he's almost positive… " _Aha!_ " he says triumphantly, snagging the strap of the sleeping bag and tugging it down. There's an _oomph_ when he accidentally-on-purpose knocks it into Sam's head, but then he's untying the straps and Sam obviously figures out what he's doing and doesn't complain.

"Think that'll be enough?" Sam asks, not masking the skepticism in his voice.

"Gonna have to be," Dean replies. "Worst case, we strip. Body heat's the best way to go, right?" Survival one-oh-one, among the first things John ever taught them when they took to the road.

Dean swears he hears cackling outside the door when he drags Sam closer and they wrap themselves in the sleeping bag. They're propped against the wall, since there's not quite enough room to spread out completely, but it's not half bad when Dean's head lolls onto Sam's shoulder and Sam's head drops to Dean's and they both succumb to the sleepiness the welcome warmth instills.

-666-

They wake far colder than they were when they fell asleep, and the waking itself isn't a pleasant one. There's a loud, clamoring crashing sound all around them, like the walls have been turned hollow and their poltergeist is on every side, banging as hard as it can on the walls over and over and over. Dean could grit his teeth and deal with it, but Sam…

Sam is trembling beside him, and not just from the cold. Dean can't see him beyond a faint outline, but he knows his little brother's eyes are wide with fear, half of him already lost in memories of the pit. It's been a year since the wall broke down, six months since Sam's last hallucination, and mostly, the kid's been doing better. But some things – like sudden loud noises – act as triggers at the worst possible moments. It's one of the reasons why they're here and not still on the road hunting.

Dean maneuvers them so that he can get his arms around Sam, pull his head down to his shoulder and murmur nonsense into his ear. If he strains past the chaotic noise, he can just make out the whimpers, and his heart breaks a little.

Just as suddenly as the clamoring started, it stops, leaving Dean's ears ringing in the silence. He keeps talking to Sam, his voice shaking almost as much as his body is, his brother all but vibrating against him.

"Sam, Sammy," he murmurs. "You with me?"

A desperate little nod against his shoulder and Sam's hands fisting in the back of his shirt are his only answers, but they're enough to have him breathing a little more easily. He pulls away as gently as possible and nudges Sam's shoulder. "C'mon, we're gonna hunker down inside this thing, try to get a little warmer. Okay?"

Another nod, steadier this time. Dean really wishes he could actually see Sam's expressions, but he's just going to have to trust that Sam would tell him if he wasn't actually all right.

Before he pulls the sleeping bag over their heads, he strips off his sweatshirt, then Sam's t-shirt. His brother is unresisting, which could either be good or bad, but for the sake of his sanity, Dean decides to go with the former. Then he's curling himself up, bending his legs enough that he can squeeze inside the bag, and he zips the top up over him and Sam, just enough space that he can get his finger out to unzip them when the time comes.

It's a tight fit. A _really_ tight fit. Sam's legs are bracketing one of Dean's, his left leg shoved up uncomfortably against Dean's groin, their arms wrapped around each other and chests pressed together leaving absolutely no space between them.

But it's warmer, and both of their shivering eases off after only a few minutes. Dean buries his head in Sam's shoulder and wonders how the hell they're gonna get out of this one.

"Could be worse," Sam says, very quietly.

"Don't tell me how," Dean replies. "The second you do, it'll happen, just to spite us." He can feel Sam grinning into his neck. That's good. That's _awesome_.

"You know, if we can figure out what it wants and we go along with it, there's a good chance it'll let us out." Sam swallows a little. "Any ideas?"

"No," Dean grumbles, "Didn't I already say that? If I knew, I would have already –"

He's cut off by the banging returning. In his arms, Sam clenches up so tightly it's a miracle he doesn't just snap in half, and Dean's arms wrap tighter around him completely on their own.

"Hey, Sammy, stay with me," he says, putting his lips close to Sam's ear so he can be heard over the din. "I'm right here, and that thing outside can't get you. It's just us, just me and you, just like it's supposed to be. No demons, no angels, nothing can get you as long as I'm here." He keeps going, a litany of nonsense that he's not even sure Sam can hear, because Sam is shaking violently, and his teeth are chattering again with a cold that's only in his mind. "Sam, come on, man," Dean begs, and he shifts to press his lips to Sam's forehead, a soft kiss, the same sort of kiss he used to grace his little brother with after nightmares, what feels like a thousand years ago now.

The shaking eases a tiny bit, just enough to be noticeable, and he tries again. This time he kisses the bridge of Sam's nose. Then a little to the side, Sam's cheek. Holding on even tighter as he moves to the shell of Sam's ear, the easiest place for him to reach in their current positions. Down a little to Sam's neck, and he doesn't even notice the noise has stopped, the shaking eased, the darkness in Sam's mind gone, until he hears his brother's gasp. " _Dean_ ," Sam's voice shakes out.

"Sam, you're okay, you're okay," Dean breathes, resting his forehead against his brother's.

This poltergeist is going _down_. It's so personal now. No one messes with Dean's little brother and gets away with it. Not anymore. Not ever again.

Sam's hands are digging into Dean's shoulder blades, and he's breathing a little erratically, and all Dean can do is hold onto him and promise that they're gonna get out of here soon, that Dean's not letting anything happen to him.

It takes him a long time to realize he's basically speaking into Sam's mouth. Even longer to notice that he's kissing his brother on every other word. Really kissing. Like, lip-on-lip action.

And Sam, rather than pulling away and clawing his way out of the sleeping bag like Dean might have expected if he'd put any thought into this _at all_ , whimpers. Nudges himself impossibly closer. And kisses back.

From there it's easy, _far_ too easy, for Dean to close his eyes on a groan and slide a hand down Sam's body, stopping at the round, firm curve of his ass and pulling him closer, thrusting against him because he can't possibly do anything else. " _Fuck_ ," he growls into Sam's mouth, biting gently at the pout of his lip and greedily swallowing the sound Sam makes. "Fuck, _Sam_."

Sam whines, high and needy, and there's not much room to move, but he manages to position his thigh so it presses _just so_ , and oh, God, Dean can't breathe around how good it feels when they start rutting against each other like horny teenagers.

" _Dean_ ," Sam cries, and damned if his name in that tone of voice doesn't send Dean right over the edge, leaving him coming hard and fast in his pants the way he hasn't done since puberty. And Sam is right behind him, gripping tight enough to leave bruises as he shoves so hard against Dean that Dean wonders if he's trying to climb inside him, before he goes suddenly boneless with release.

They lay there, clinging and panting, for several long seconds, and Dean thinks it should be weird, _really fucking weird_ , how weird this _isn't_. But mostly, he's too sated and happy to care, and maybe not comfortable, not in this too hot, too tight little cocoon they're stuck in, sweat-slick and with sticky boxers, but it's not exactly _un_ comfortable, either.

And then there's the unmistakable sound of something heavy sliding against the floor, and the closet door suddenly clicks open. Inside the sleeping bag, Dean and Sam both freeze, staring at each other even though they can barely see.

"No way," Sam breathes.

"That pervy little fucker," is Dean's incredulous response.

The poltergeist cackles gleefully.


End file.
